Capítulo 76 de 80

I was driving home from the hunt one evening alone, in a racing trap. There were still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare was running briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, did not fall behind the rear wheels by a single step. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The sultry heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows thickened rapidly. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream overgrown with willows, climbed the hill and entered the forest. The road wound before me between thick hazel bushes already flooded with darkness; I moved forward with difficulty. The trap bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, which constantly crossed the deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared in the heights, the trees grew wild, large raindrops sharply drummed and splashed on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was floundering, I could not see a thing. Somehow I sheltered by a wide bush. Hunched over and covering my face, I was patiently waiting for the bad weather to end, when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, a tall figure appeared to me on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to have risen from the earth beside my trap.

"Who's there?" asked a resonant voice.

"And who are you?"

"I'm the local forester."

I gave my name.

"Ah, I know! Are you going home?"

"Home. But you see what a storm..."

"Yes, a storm," the voice answered.

White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling and short thunderclap rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force.

"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.

"What can one do!"

"I'll lead you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly.

"Please do."

"Sit tight."

He approached the horse's head, took her by the bridle and pulled her from the spot. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the trap, which rocked "like a boat at sea," and called the dog. My poor mare splashed heavily with her feet through the mud, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left, like a phantom. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are, sir," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in chorus. I raised my head and in the lightning's light saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard enclosed by a wattle fence. A dim light shone from one small window. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Coming, coming!" rang out a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a shirt, belted with a strip of bast, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold.

"Light the way for the gentleman," he said to her, "and I'll put your trap under the shed."

The girl glanced at me and went into the hut. I followed her.

The forester's hut consisted of one room, smoke-blackened, low and empty, without sleeping platforms or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. A single-barrel gun lay on the bench, a heap of rags lay in the corner; two large pots stood near the stove. A splinter burned on the table, flaring up and dying down sadly. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, tied to the end of a long pole. The girl extinguished the lantern, sat down on a tiny bench and began to rock the cradle with her right hand, straighten the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it is not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle was breathing heavily and rapidly.

"Are you here alone?" I asked the girl.

"Alone," she uttered barely audibly.

"Are you the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped, bowing his head, over the threshold. He lifted the lantern from the floor, approached the table and lit the wick.

"I suppose you're not used to splinters?" he said and shook his curls.

I looked at him. Rarely had I happened to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet canvas shirt his mighty muscles bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his thick grown-together eyebrows boldly gazed small hazel eyes. He lightly rested his hands on his hips and stopped before me.

I thanked him and asked his name.

"My name is Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk."

"Ah, you're Biryuk?"

I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Ermolai and from others I had often heard tales about the forester Biryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been such a master of his craft: "He won't let you carry off a bundle of brushwood; at any hour, even at midnight, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and nimble as a devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka nor with money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have plotted to get rid of him, but no—he doesn't give in."

That's how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk.

"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you give nobody quarter."

"I do my duty," he answered sullenly, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."

He took an axe from his belt, sat down on the floor and began to chop splinters.

"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.

"No," he answered and swung the axe forcefully.

"She died, I suppose?"

"No... yes... she died," he added and turned away.

I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.

"She ran off with a passing tradesman," he uttered with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke up and cried out; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled horn into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at the child. He approached the door, stopped and turned around.

"You, sir, I suppose," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, as you wish. I would have put the samovar on for you, but I have no tea... I'll go see about your horse."

He went out and slammed the door. I looked around again. The hut seemed even more dismal than before. The bitter smell of stale smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl did not move from her spot and did not raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shirt; her bare feet hung motionless.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Ulita," she said, hanging her sad little face even lower.

The forester came in and sat on the bench.

"The storm is passing," he remarked after a short silence, "if you order, I'll see you through the forest."

I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"There's mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.

"Can you hear it from here?"

"You can hear it from the yard."

We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, long lightning flashes occasionally sparkled; but over our heads dark blue sky was already visible here and there, stars twinkled through the thin, swiftly flying clouds. The outlines of trees, sprinkled with rain and stirred by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We began to listen. The forester took off his cap and hung his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the rustling of leaves. Biryuk led the horse from under the shed. "But this way I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "miss him." "I'll go with you... would you like?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in no time, and then I'll see you off. Let's go."

We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the way, but he stopped only rarely, and then only to listen to the sound of the axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "But where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured strokes clearly reached my ears. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went farther through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble rang out.

"He's felled it..." muttered Biryuk.

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; the forest grew slightly lighter. We finally climbed out of the ravine. "Wait here," the forester whispered to me, bent down and, raising his gun upward, disappeared among the bushes. I began to listen with tension. Through the constant noise of the wind I thought I heard nearby weak sounds: an axe cautiously knocked on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" Biryuk's iron voice suddenly thundered. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare's... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," repeated Biryuk, gasping, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at the place of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he held the thief beneath him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Biryuk rose and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant, wet, in rags, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half-covered with an angular piece of matting, stood right there together with the cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant also was silent and only shook his head.

"Let him go," I whispered in Biryuk's ear, "I'll pay for the tree."

Biryuk silently took the horse by the withers with his left hand; with his right he held the thief by the belt: "Well, turn around, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the hatchet," muttered the peasant. "Why should it go to waste!" said the forester and picked up the axe. We set off. I walked behind... The rain began to drizzle again and soon poured in streams. With difficulty we reached the hut. Biryuk threw the captured little horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the sash and sat him in the corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat down on the bench.

"Look how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Would you like to lie down?"

"Thank you."

"I would have locked him in the closet, for your sake," he continued, pointing at the peasant, "but you see, the bolt..."

"Leave him here, don't touch him," I interrupted Biryuk.

The peasant glanced at me from under his brows. I inwardly gave myself my word to free the poor fellow at any cost. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, wrinkled face, overhanging yellow eyebrows, restless eyes, thin limbs... The girl lay down on the floor at his very feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk sat by the table, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we were all silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull and broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich."

"What do you want?"

"Let me go."

Biryuk did not answer.

"Let me go... from hunger... let me go."

"I know you," the forester answered sullenly, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief."

"Let me go," the peasant insisted, "the steward... we're ruined, truly... let me go!"

"Ruined!.. Nobody should steal."

"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't destroy me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat you alive, truly."

Biryuk turned away. The peasant was twitching, as if fever shook him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly.

"Let me go," he repeated with despondent despair, "let me go, by God, let me go! I'll pay, truly, by God. By God, from hunger... the little ones are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, truly, it's come to that."

"But you still shouldn't go stealing."

"The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse at least, at least her... she's the only one we have... let me go!"

"I tell you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. There's no call to spoil you either."

"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, as sure as... let me go!"